If You Ever Come Back
by Awesome-Sauce-Eater
Summary: Just a short songfic about the aftermath of Sherlock's 'death' set to The Script's 'If You Ever Come Back'


**Oooh, a songfic! Never written one of these before, so please excuse this feeble first attempt :D**

**I do not own Sherlock because it belongs to the BBC and I don't own the song because it belongs to The Script and blah blah blah...**

**If You Ever Come Back**

_If you're standing with your suitcase  
But you can't step on the train  
Everything's the way that you left it I still haven't slept yet  
_

John felt silly sometimes. Sherlock was gone, and he knew he needed to move on, but try as he might, he couldn't. Christ, he couldn't even bring himself to move any of Sherlock's things. John had left the flat exactly as it was; Sherlock's violin was still by the window, where he had left it last and there were dirty Petri dishes on the table from his last experiment.

_And if you're covering your face now  
But you just can't hide the pain  
Still setting two plates on the counter but eating without ya'_

__Damn it. John had done it again, for about the millionth time. He knew it was just out of habit, but once again, he had gone to make himself a cup of tea, and had poured one out for Sherlock as well. Most of the time he would realise as he poured it out. "Why are you making Sherlock tea? He's not here" his mind would say. Then John would curse under his breath and pour the tea down the drain.

But sometimes, just sometimes, he wouldn't realise until he got into the living room. He would set the mugs on the coffee table; "Sherlock, I made you-", and his voice would die in his throat, as he looked up to Sherlock's empty chair. Then he would sigh; a saddened, weary sigh before sitting down and thinking about his friend, the two mugs of tea slowly cooling as they remained undrunk.

_If the truth is you're a liar  
When you say that you're okay  
I'm sleeping on your side of the bed going out of my head now  
_

John hadn't slept properly for weeks. Usually he would just sit in his chair until late into the night, thinking, until eventually, exhaustion overcame him and he fell asleep where he sat. He couldn't remember the last time he had slept in his own bed. Last night, Mrs Hudson had come up to check on him, and had insisted that he get a proper night's sleep, in a bed. 'You look exhausted, John dear" she had said, her voice shrouded in sympathy. John didn't know what made him walk into Sherlock's room and climb into his bed, it just felt right. Mrs Hudson didn't say a word about his choice of bedroom, she merely left for her own flat with "You have a good rest now dear" and shut the door.

_And if you're out there try'na move on  
But something pulls you back again  
I'm sitting here try to persuade you like your in the same room_

__Sometimes, reality of the fact that Sherlock wasn't coming back would engulf John, and overwhelm him. He would realise exactly what had happened. Oh, John knew Sherlock was dead, but most of the time it was nice to just pretend he was out on a case, or some other place; pretending felt good to John. But some days he would realise that pretending was exactly what it said it was; pretending. And pretending wasn't real. What was real, was that Sherlock had jumped off a bloody building and John had seen him and he was gone. And that was when John would find himself pleading and begging to an empty room; 'Come back Sherlock, just come back please!"

_And I wish you could give me the cold shoulder  
And I wish you could still give me a hard time  
And I wish I could still wish it was over  
But even if wishing is a waste of time__  
Even if I never cross your mind  
_

John missed Sherlock. Terribly. He missed his little ways and mannerisms. The way he would send texts at lightning speeds, the way he would mutter under his breath while doing an experiment, the way he would deduct things so expertly. Christ, John missed everything, even his childish moods, his insults, the way he refused to eat, or sleep. John wished Sherlock was there, even if it was just to play the violin at three in the morning, or lie on the sofa in a mood refusing to speak. John just wanted him back. He missed him.

**AN.  
Okay, yes, this is very short. I didn't use the whole song, so if you want to hear the whole thing just YouTube "If You Ever Come Back – The Script". Thank you for reading my first ever songfic (exciting!) and if you could take the time to drop me a small review, I'd really appreciate it. Thanks :D**_  
_


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